


Pretend

by mystery_deer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Not BBC Sherlock, Teen Sherlock, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock Holmes, Trans!Mycroft, Trans!Sherlock, it's modern day though, listen...the holmes siblings are neither cis nor straight, mycroft is questioning but not focusing on it very much, trans mycroft holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 23:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18537826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystery_deer/pseuds/mystery_deer
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft play pretend until neither of them can anymore.





	Pretend

When Mummy and Dad weren’t home they would play pretend, still sneaking around as quietly as possible but without the fear of being caught. Their parents had a hold over the house even when they weren’t physically inside of it. Sherlock rejected the quiet by making as much noise as possible when they were there to hear it. He would scream and kick and laugh and knock things over much to everyone’s horror. At a dinner party once he came downstairs and started singing as loud as he could, Mycroft had grabbed him and pulled him up the stairs, hand covering his mouth and telling him “Be quietbequietbequiet” but he wouldn’t. Even when he turned red in the face and his voice grew raspy he sang himself to sleep in that noise. 

Mycroft was quite the opposite, he adapted to the silence until he had become one with it. Until he could use it to his advantage. He listened in on conversations, he remembered, he learned. His parents often joked nervously about putting a bell on him. He wouldn’t respond, just gave them a wry smile. 

They played pretend when their parents were gone, because it was the only time they could.

They would meet in Mycroft’s room because it was larger and Sherlock’s room was a mess at all times. They didn’t discuss this and Mycroft would close the door behind them so an errant maid couldn’t spy. He doubted they’d be interested either way, the two of them hadn’t needed caring for since Sherlock was born.   
“Mycroft!” The ten year old shouted, swinging his legs off the side of the loft bed. “I noticed that when women walk their hips sway.”

“When men walk their hips also sway.” He challenged him, staring outside the window. It was a beautiful cloudy day but they weren’t allowed outside without asking first. There were several cases of children being lost in the woods. Mycroft thought himself old enough to go anyway but wouldn’t be able to with Sherlock there, he’d want to come and he wasn’t old enough. He wouldn’t be able to run very fast if something were to happen.

“Yeah but-”  
“Yes, however.”  
“No one says however!”  
“Mummy would be upset if she learned I let you speak like that. She’d pull you out of that school and have you taught at home like me.”

Sherlock jumped down from the bed and onto the desk below. He was a thin, reedy child so there was never any danger of anything breaking from his weight alone. Mycroft caught the small rock he’d collected and placed there before it hit the ground. “Be careful.”  
“Do you like being taught at home? I like school, because the people are so interesting!” Mycroft thought of how Sherlock had snuck home once in the middle of the afternoon, beaten and grinning. His teeth were pink. “I’d be bored if I was home alone all day.”

“Mm.” He dreaded the thought of college next year. Unfamiliar environment filled with people he didn’t know or care about. He looked at his brother. “You were saying about women and their sway?”  
“Oh yea- yes they um.” He was sitting on the floor now. “You can see their hips move like a circle, and men’s hips move...pointy.” He laid down now, staring at the ceiling. “Will I move like that when I grow up?”

“You can move however you wish to if you practice enough.” Mycroft said, turning his attention back to the window. It had started to rain, but only lightly. “Is that what you want to practice today?”  
“Are we gonna play pretend?”  
“Going to. I’m too old to ‘play’ anything. But yes, you can. I’ll teach you.”

For the next few hours Mycroft and Sherlock would go back and forth practicing how to walk like someone else. How people walked when they were hurt in specific places (Bone fracture, bunion, blister, pulled muscle). How people walked when they are in a hurry, when they’re late as opposed to being threatened and so on. They always parted ways when they heard the front door open, not wanting to be caught. Their parents always punished ‘strange behaviour’ severely, something both of them had learned early on.

When they got older Sherlock continued to practice, just as he’d been told. Mycroft moved out and went to college where he was crushingly lonely and excelled academically. He didn’t make a single friend in the four years he stayed and he graduated top of his class.   
He was summoned to talk to his brother as soon as he stepped down from the podium, his father’s driver picking him up. “It’s-...well...” he was told. “We don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock was brooding in his room, it was even worse than he thought. The room. It was so crammed full of junk and knick knacks that it was difficult to move or truly consider it a living space as opposed to a storage closet. It made Mycroft feel anxious, he himself was prone to throwing away things even when he needed them. He once stripped the bed of sheets and pillows and blankets in his single person dorm room and slept on the bare mattress for weeks.

“Did Mom and Dad tell you?”  
“Mummy did, Dad hasn’t spoken to me.”  
“He doesn’t speak to me either. And Mom just cries.” Mycroft stood and Sherlock sat. He looked so small and thin in his oversized coat. It was hot in the room, the windows were blocked by mountains of things. “It’s not a game.” Sherlock said, wiping at one of his eyes. He didn’t cry though, Mycroft waited for it. 

“Could you pretend?” He asked, more curious than imploring. Sherlock shook his head, his black curls used to bounce but they were damaged now, cut with blunt scissors and jagged. It was a fitting look for him.   
“Even if I could I wouldn’t.” He sinks down further in his chair, Mycroft is sure it’s a chair from the never-used dining room. He’d carved different names into the wood, so many it all looks like marks and slashes with no meaning. “How’s college?” He asked, looking faraway.

Mycroft wanted to tell him that it would be ok, that college was a wonderful place where he’d meet peers who didn’t taunt or attack him. He wanted to hold his brother but his body stayed rooted to the ground. “I’m left alone.” He said, leaving Sherlock to draw his own conclusions. The boy scowled.   
“That’s the worst of it all.” He said, tearing up at last. “I hate being alone.”

Mycroft thought about stilted words of comfort he’d heard on television, radio programs, counselors. He couldn’t recall them all accurately and so they were in a mashed up saccharine jumble. One day you’ll look back and hang in there it gets better so don’t give up tomorrow is another day for the sun shines and in fifty years you’ll laugh and tell the story to your children. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s head, not moving it. He wished for the weight to be a comfort.   
“At least I have you?” Sherlock asked, not looking up. Mycroft didn’t look down.

He thought of his body in contrast to Sherlock’s. Thought of their conversations so many years ago as he often did. He thought about their games of pretend, of how Sherlock jumped at the chance to be the Man, to be grown up and angular and how much he’d succeeded. He thought of how he himself was constantly changing, moving, rotating in a circle like the sway of a woman’s hip. It was a bad analogy, he thought. “I’m not sure I’m much company.” He said.  
“You’re company.” Was the reply.

Sherlock had always been a person, (a baby then a boy then a man) who could not stay silent. He was loud and delighted in being loud, being heard, being seen. Mycroft loved this about him, he loved him. As the sun set he watched his little brother melt into the carpet and stare up at the ceiling.   
“What shall I call you then?” He asked, standing over him like a bird of prey.   
“Sherlock.” He said, as if the answer was obvious. They made eye contact for a moment, and they understood.   
“Sherlock it is.”


End file.
